“And these people want me dead?”
Nat nodded. “Or worse.”
“What could be worse than death?”
Nat tightened his lips, something he did when he was debating what to say without upsetting her.
“We’ll talk more in the morning. I’ll teach you how to read this.” He tapped the diary, changing the subject. “Then you can read and understand it in your own time.
Elora was about to protest. She wanted answers now and couldn’t see why he didn’t translate directly from the book. But he held a hand up as if he expected what she was about to ask.
“There’s no rush, Elora. We’ve got plenty of time. It’s going to take us a couple of days to even reach Bath.”
She realised he was right, yet it didn’t stop her wanting to know everything now. Frustration welled up inside her yet there was no point arguing with him. If his mind was made up, it was made up.
Lifting herself from the sofa, she took her uncle’s empty cup and her own and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Night, then.”
Elora went through to the galley, leaving the cups in the sink before heading for her bedroom. She was tired, but sleep would be difficult with so much going on in her mind.
The Molly dipped, settled, and then dipped again. Somebody had stepped aboard.
Elora raised herself onto her elbows, blinking the sleep from her eyes. Her room was in darkness, no morning light spilled through her curtains. Sleep must have found her at some point, but she couldn’t tell what time it was. Who the hell would be coming onto the Molly in the middle of the night?
The barge was still rocking as she got to her feet and paced out of the room, glad that she hadn’t bothered to get undressed. Nat was asleep on the sofa, a blanket pulled up to his neck; when he was asleep, he went deep. The room was dark and in shadow, her uncle having blown the lamp out before turning in, but she could still make out the silhouette of a figure through the frosted glass of the outer door.
She cleared the space to the door in three strides and unbolted it before wrenching it open, ready to give the intruder the benefit of her sharp tongue. She stopped when she recognised the figure.
“Reuben. What are you doing here?” she barked, agitated. How had he known where to find her?
He grinned, dark eyes twinkling.
“Sorry, sweetheart. Afraid Mr Silk didn’t take too kindly to your rejection. He insists on meeting you.”
“Get stuffed!” she yelled, slamming the door in his face but he caught it in his hand and pushed through, forcing her to stumble down the steps. He followed her falling body and flicked on the light switch.
Her uncle sat up, flinging the blanket aside as he took in the man entering the Molly and the shape of Elora sprawled on the floor.
“What the hell –?” He made to rise but was forced back down by another man who’d squeezed through the doorway from the kitchen. That’s right, remembered Elora, the barge dipped twice. He must have entered through the bow door.
The hulking mass who pushed her uncle down looked almost cartoon-comical, his size forcing him to duck his head within the narrow confines of the barge. Square and brutal with a fat nose squashed tight to his face as if made from putty, he wore an expression as grim as an undertaker. Covering his thick forehead was a dark green tattoo of a fist, clenched as if about to strike.
“The boat secure?” asked Reuben, directing the question at the giant thug, who simply nodded. Elora noticed the small pig-like eyes light up, the hint of violence sparkling behind them.
Nat began to rise once again but the brute forced him back down, his thick hand closing on Nat’s shoulder to keep him in place.
“Get off him, you ugly git!” Elora screamed, her anger raging above the fear as she launched herself at the thug. When her temper was up, her body reacted before the brain and usually she ended up regretting it. But she was in motion now, committed.
Grabbing around his neck with one hand whilst punching him with the other, she put all her strength into hurting him. It was like wrestling with a solid oak wardrobe. The giant didn’t flinch. She changed tactics and raked her fingernails across his face, having to pull herself up to reach.
She was rewarded with a back-handed slap which sent her crashing into the wall, driving the breath from her lungs. Her knees struck the floor and she crumpled into a painful heap.
Shaking the dizziness from her head she glanced up and saw angry red welts gauged across her attacker’s face. She might have felt some satisfaction at that but for the cold stare he gave her, full of hatred, warning her that he would repay the pain with interest. She shifted her gaze to Reuben who smiled back, pleasantly amused.
“This here’s Pinky. He’s a bit messed up in the head but a mite handy with his fists. Now you can either sit down and wait like a good little girl or I’ll let Pinky make you.”
Pinky’s huge hand wiped delicately at the scratches on his face and Elora saw that he wanted to hurt her. She wasn’t scared for herself, but Nat was fragile in comparison with the thug.
She clambered to her feet.
“Tell your bitch to take his grubby mitts off my uncle,” she spat at Reuben, her fury still present.
Reuben nodded towards the bulk who slowly let his hand drop to his side. Then smiling, as if the whole situation was a mild-mannered greeting of friends, he pulled a gun from beneath his suit and pointed it at Nat.
“Now be a good girl and sit down next to him.”
She did as she was told, feeling a stiffness in her neck and soreness in the knees that promised bruises later. She lowered herself down, Pinky backing away and folding his thick arms.
Reuben kept the gun trained on her uncle as he took a mobile phone from his pocket and pressed the speed-dial button. He put it to his ear and waited.
“I’ve got her... Yes...No... She’s not going anywhere...An uncle.” His gaze shifted to Nat. “What’s your name?”
Elora gritted her teeth. There had to be more to this than simply her singing.
“Don’t tell him anything,” she said, glaring at Reuben.
Reuben grinned, lowered his gun and squeezed the trigger.
The noise was painful, an explosion in her ears. She involuntary yelped, but her uncle’s scream was louder, the bullet having shot into his shin. He bent forwards, hands pressing over the bloody wound, face grimacing with the pain.
